Flashback
by gumcrunch
Summary: A couple hours after Repairs. Melinda May contemplates while the girl to her right soundly sleeps.


**I was thinking of writing something else, then this came into my head. So, I'll just write the other thing later. Note: I am very much against May being Skye's mother. Big sister tough love is more what I think when I look at these two.**

* * *

Fifty thousand feet up.

For a moment, she let herself be amused by the candy-colored glow of the control switches, faint beams seemingly dancing across the room only to be consumed by the dark. Her eyes ran over the instrument panel for the seventh time in four hours, making sure everything was in place. That everything was right.

She shifted slightly in her seat, stretching her back as she did, and adjusted her grip on the yoke. She felt her fingers quiver slightly as she moved her right hand. Her knuckles had become a bit tender from the fight earlier. Nothing a little ice would not cure, but it irritated her to feel the throbbing sensation that came with it. She let go of the yoke to clench a fist, digging her nails into the coarse fabric that was covering her palm. The insides of her fingers felt cold, and it relieved her that even through the cloth, the rest of her hand did not feel warm either.

The plane was quiet now. The last of footsteps had shuffled up the stairs about an hour ago. With formality that was distinctly Coulson's. Fitzsimmons had both thought it necessary to announce they were going to bed, after sorting what was left intact in the lab and what needed to be repaired or thrown out. Ward had also already enclosed himself in his bunk. Though, whether he was asleep or not was still quite debatable. Nonetheless, the only sound that remained besides the occasional beep from the control panel, was the heavy breathing coming from the seat next to hers. She cast her gaze to the right and let her eyes linger.

Skye was curled up in the chair, head resting on her own shoulder, hugging her knees to her chest. Her hands were wrapped tightly around her forearms, looking quite comfortable despite the awkward position.

Staring at Skye, she wondered though if there was enough heat in the girl's hands to keep herself from getting cold.

* * *

Her father's hands were always warm, Melinda May remembered.

Warm, against her cheeks whenever he would kiss her head good night. Warm, on her shoulder as he walked her home every day from school. Sometimes, whenever he would catch her staring, he would let her sit beside him in front of his special desk, and let her take one of his special paintbrushes between her fingers. And his hand would feel warm as he held her small one in his own, guiding her brushstrokes over the empty white paper. It was warmth that comforted her, made her feel protected.

But her father has long been gone and now, warmth in her hands did not feel at all comforting. It did not feel at all like protection. Warmth in her hands was the memory of necks slowly losing air, the breath and spit from gagging throats. Warmth was the sharp searing pain that shot up from her knuckles and throbbed within her veins with every punch she threw. Warmth was the feeling of blood, flowing between her fingers and drying under her nails, as she collapsed at the feet of the gifted. Eyes wide. Soulless.

She was the only one left breathing. But with every gulp of air, she was burning.

And now, she hated the sensation. She hated feeling heat in her hands.

* * *

Staring at Skye, she wondered if the girl's hands were warm enough to keep herself from getting cold. The chattering teeth that followed a sharp intake of air answered the question in Melinda May's head.

She exhaled, and pushed a couple controls on the panel before letting go of the yoke. Reaching under her seat into the small open compartment to her left, she pulled out a plaid blanket and stood up. Skye's breathing became more even as she loosely tucked the thick cloth around the girl.

Settling again on the pilot's chair, Melinda May's hands still felt cold and clammy as she regained grip on the yoke. The way they have been since she decided to wash Bahrain away. And she still hated having heat in them. But somehow, there was a warmth in her chest when she pinned her eyes back through the glass in front of her. And for the first time in a long time, warmth actually felt quite… nice.


End file.
